


My One

by aliciutza



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Make up sex, Missing Scene, Smut, boatsex 2.0, but he does know some things, jon is in love but hey what's new, jon is not a bloody poet, missing moment, no interuptions this time, the dreaded parentage discussion make another appearance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-02-16 07:40:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18687079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliciutza/pseuds/aliciutza
Summary: Jon and Daenerys have a conversation to finish, hopefully no interruptions this time. Dany seems to be pulling away, and Jon has always been a man of a few words. So he does he only thing he knows: he acts.Post 8x03 aka Battle of Winterfell.





	My One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [atetheredmind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/atetheredmind/gifts).



> Hiiii!!! So this takes place after 8x03 and somewhere in 8x04 - I hope. 
> 
> Wrote it for the love of my life, Amy. Happy birthday! I hope all your wishes come true, you deserve all the best in life! I have no words to express how grateful I am to have you in my life! Thank you for being my friend <3
> 
> Credit for the drop dead gorgeous Dany edit goes to the amazing Jenn (dracarysqueen) on tumblr ♡

 

She was denying him, that much he knew. He supposed—nay, he was sure—he deserved it for avoiding her for two days; he regretted it now, having lost all those moments with her. Yet Jon knew that had he as much as glanced her way, he would have blurted out the entire thing. No. He wanted—he needed to find a way of telling her—Dany deserved to be told gently, not to be sprung such news upon herself, like Sam had done with him.

 

Despite his best efforts, he had fucked up. The dead had arrived before he got to finish saying everything he wanted to say. Gods. Her face. She looked so heartbroken. Jon was sure she must have thought him some manipulative snake, worse than Littlefinger.

 

Somehow, they had survived, the losses immense, especially for her, but they were here, alive, flesh and bone, still breathing, hearts still beating. Still, it wasn’t worth it without her by his side.

 

He could not forget her face when he found her hunched over Jorah’s body; a small traitorous voice wondering if she would mourn him just as much. Her sobs haunted him every moment since they had been separated.

 

She was keeping him at a distance, her outer shell as cold as it had been that very first day on Dragonstone. He found it ironic, how they were meant to meet on their family’s lands, in the place that held the entire Targaryen history. She made sure never to be left alone with him, always flanked by either Missandei or Varys, sometimes Tyrion. He didn’t dare ask for a private meeting, he knew she needed time to mourn, time to decide… Yet, in the dead of the night, when the moon was highest on the sky, his mind would drift to her face, missing her warm body next to his, missing her fingers threaded in his hair, her Valyrian lullabies that would never fail to put him to a restful sleep.

 

He had been so close to just barging into her chambers, beg her to take him back. He supposed three days wasn’t that much, yet he had never yearned in his life for anything as much as his heart yearned for Dany. Her touch lingered on his forearm, the memory of their last shared moment a faint ticklish sensation he would never part with, not even if she were to banish him to the Land of Always Winter.

 

It all passed in a blur, they burned the fallen, mourned them, and soon they were marching to White Harbour, loading on her ships, sailing to Dragonstone for the war with the Mad Queen.

 

He may not have been Ned Stark’s seed, but Jon could not see him as anything else but his father, and he would keep his word, no matter what. Even if it was the last thing he would do for _her_.

 

Jon watched as Drogon did another deep dive in the sky, until he almost touched the sea, only to effortlessly glide over the deep blue water, his brave queen perched in between his shoulder blades, smiling when her son proudly purred. He could feel Rhaegal’s pull, his call to play; but he didn’t feel comfortable riding him, at least not until he spoke to Dany. Last thing he wanted was for her to feel he was stealing her child. He hoped his mental reassurances were enough for his new companion, at least they used to work on Ghost.

 

Drogon flew in tandem with the ship, his wing hovering over the rail; Jon took a step back, as Dany graciously climbed from her son and onto the deck. Her smile fell as their eyes met, his heart cracking deeper, the knowledge that he was once the reason she smiled as sharp as the knife that had ended his life.

 

She left before his leaden mouth had the opportunity to move, say something—anything—even a simple ‘Your Grace’.

 

 _This can’t wait any longer,_ he thought.

 

He was right behind her, his hand catching the door that she was about to close. At last, he spoke. “A word, Your Grace.”

 

After a long pause, she nodded, moving to the farthest corner of the room they used for their war council gatherings, a big heavy oak table in the middle, nailed to the floor; a map of King’s Landing, with various small wooden pieces strategically placed in different points, spread over the entire surface, no place for anything else.

 

He closed the door behind him, praying this time there would be no interruptions. She surprised him when she spoke first.

 

“Have you decided when you are to announce your claim?”

 

_Not this again—_

 

“I think it is best to wait for the war to end. Maybe you could announce it after we eliminate Cersei. She is too much of a risk. We cannot afford dissent between the people, not when they just started liking _this_ Targaryen,” she grimaced, her eyes fixed on a random spot on the wooden floor.

 

“I assume your friend has the proof of your claim,” she continued. “I—we should think of a way of settling this. We can’t have them think they’re in for a second Dance—”

 

“I don’t want the bloody throne,” he cut her off, his patience already wearing thin.

 

“Do you think it would matter to _anyone_ outside this room? Wars have been started for less, and you of all people should know it.”

 

He approached her, his voice steady and calm this time, “I won’t tell them.”

 

She moved to the opposite corner of the room before he could get too close, and he couldn’t help the way his nails dug into his palms when she rejected the closeness that once came so naturally between them.

 

Dany scoffed, “You mean to tell me, Samwell Tarly, the man who hates my guts will keep a secret that has the potential to take the throne from me? I think he’d rather overthrow ‘ _the foreign whore who murdered his father and brother’_ in favour of his best friend, or so I have heard.”

 

“Sam would ne—”

 

She shut him up with a pointed look. The first time she _actually_ looked at him.

 

“We will marry. Then the conflict would be moot.”

 

She grimaced. “You’d marry the _barren_ Queen, and in a few years, they would rally behind some usurper demanding heirs, wanting to push his daughter in your lap, Tywin Lannister come again, ready to murder me in my sleep.”

 

“Godsdammit, Dany, you aren’t helping,” his fist collided with the heavy wooden table, the small wooden figurines moving with the impact.

 

“I wish you to never know what it feels to know everything you’ve worked for your entire life can be ripped from you mere in seconds. And I wish you to never know what it feels like to push away the love of your life.” She turned her back to him, and Jon could see her hand shaking on the knob. “I am setting you free.”

 

“Dany—”

 

“It’s _Daenerys_. Please—” her voice broke on the last syllable.

 

 _This isn’t happening_ , he desperately thought, feeling her push further away from him with every moment he didn’t reply. He hated himself, how he couldn’t just speak, tell her what he was feeling, know how to convince her that she was the love of his life as well. So he did the one thing he knew—he showed her.

 

“Aye. Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen,” his tongue was heavy in his dry mouth, praying to the old gods and the new it would be enough, that she would take him back, “the Mother of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains—” she turned her head, her hand still on the knob, “Protector of the _Seven_ Kingdoms, Queen of Meereen,” the look on her face finally made him take a step towards her, the distance between them unbearable. “ _Rightful_ _Heir_ to the Iron Throne, _Rightful Queen_ of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men,” Jon took out Longclaw from its scabbard and in a swift movement, he kneeled, laying the ancient sword at her feet, “My sword is yours. My heart is yours. I pledge my life to you and _only_ you.”

 

He didn’t dare look up, however much he wanted to look upon her sweet face, kiss her until his lips were raw and he couldn’t breathe.

 

“Jon…” her voice sounded so small, he’d only heard it this way when he had woken up on a similar ship, on the same course, just two moons prior.

 

He held his breath for what came next, she was the closest she had been in days, his hands itching to reach out and pull her into his arms; he wondered just how much would he be able to fight it, and how much longer she would deny him.

 

She touched his cheek, gently tilting his face upwards, and he didn’t regret how quick he was to lean into her touch, starved for it, eager to get more.

 

“It still doesn’t solve most of our issues,” she eventually said, the sadness in her eyes breaking his heart.

 

“It does. Can’t you see? It’s either you or no one else. You’ve ruined me for anyone else, there’s only you—the queen or just ‘Dany’.”

 

“But—”

 

“Heirs or no heirs, I love you and only _you_. Even if I don’t believe that witch.”

 

Finally, the first genuine smile since their lives have been changed in light of the truth of his parentage.

 

“Rise.”

 

Jon never knew how much such a simple word could embolden him, for the moment he did rise, he was pinning her against the door, his lips finally upon hers, swallowing her sigh of relief, his knees almost giving in under the sheer force of the love he felt for her.

 

He pressed her body to his, unwilling to part just yet from her sweet mouth, her full lips as demanding as his. A yelp of surprise caught in her throat when he picked her up and made his way to the solid table, the only hard surface available, other than the floor. He dropped her plump arse to the table, his hands pulling at the familiar lacings of her dress. He groaned, annoyed when he found more layers than she had accustomed him with, his heart cringing at the guilt he felt for being parted from her for more than a moment. He should have never left her alone, not even for a second.

 

She brought him back when her hand grazed his hard cock over his breeches, their moans blending in a sweet familiar melody. She undid them with a comforting swiftness and he could no longer bear to not feel her skin against his lips. Eventually, he stopped kissing her to pull her dress over her head, her pupils taking over all the violet in her eyes, her lips red from his beard; she smiled, a wide hopeful smile that reached her eyes, before she pulled his breeches and small clothes over his arse, then crashed his body to hers, cradling him in between her thighs.

 

He dove back in for a kiss, insatiable, a smile sneaking on his lips as she pinched his buttock to pull him closer, her patience wearing thin. He almost came when his hand found her cunt soaked, his mouth watering to taste her. But the desire to push into her was stronger this time, his cock buried to the hilt in her in the next second. He hissed when he pulled almost the entire way out, their foreheads fused together, both of them watching his cock disappear all the way in her, then reappear, the slow rhythm the sweetest torture he had ever endured.

 

Her eyes found his, searing a promise into his soul, their connection so deep, he could feel her everywhere around him, in his mind, his heart, his bones.

 

“My one,” he grunted, pushing into her, her eyes rolling in the back of her head.

 

She leaned back, pulling him with her; Jon picked up the pace, the table creaking under their movements. He kissed her skin wherever his mouth landed, till he finally settled on the spot right under her left breast; he nibbled on it, wishing he could carve his name into her skin, his mark on her forever, so she could be his and only his.

 

“Jon,” she whispered, a quiet prayer for the gods or just for him. It only took a few more thrusts and a roll of her nipple in between his fingers before they both came undone.

 

“Dany,” he rested his forehead in between her breasts, panting. Dread filled him— _she wouldn’t cast him away now, would she?_

 

His fears evaporated as soon as she threaded her fingers in his hair and pulled him up for a lazy kiss.

 

He pulled back to look at her—his one and only, his heart—lips bruised from kissing, cheeks red from her high, braid dishevelled, still the most beautiful he had ever seen her.

 

“I guess _together_ it is, then,” she confidently declared.

 

“Together,” he echoed and dove to capture her lips again.

**Author's Note:**

> Umm so yeah! Let's call this wishful thinking, or maybe it's just me hitting some of Amy's kinks hehe
> 
> Now go wish this wonderful and insanely talented lady a happy birthday!


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